the pattern for a love poem

would it work if you  think i think

you smell like a rainy day

 cleopatra even, sometimes 

that you think like you're thinking, eat 

just the right amounts 

could say anything I wanted to hear say everything I want to hear

that i roll on my tongue the dark silence you throw at me

with all the false bravado of a corned dog 

if i ask would you give me 

the light hairs on your arm

the layer of fat you wear around your middle 

the back of your knee ever so lightly layered with prickly hair

your thin shoulders shrugging off my stupefying calm

I stagger around the right spaces you fill

lick from the floor the munch you use to turn your brain to mulch

the steam spiraling out from behind  your ears

your bony ankles your lucid days, few and far in between

the meaningless snigger you let hover in the air between us

knocking too and fro between us

your lack of interest, the coldness. 

you believe in your karma don't you? your stars and your preordained destiny

i pin you like a fly to this pattern.

i watch in every single way 

the things you let me think you say

you touch my wrist

i quiver, flinch.

शान्तिः

The silence of the Buddha points to the impossibility of trying to use reason to explain phenomena. Metaphysical reasoning will get you nowhere, the only access we have to it is what the structure our imagination and our creative minds impose upon it. And therein lies our bondage to Samsara. The cessation, then, of our thought process leads to the dissolution of plurality. Nirvana is the quiescence of plurality. 

The silence of my disfunctional phone has been interpreted variously. Speechlessness, an absence, the inability to say something. A warning, cry for help even, causing late night are-you-okay calls. Extensive meditations on the perlocutionary effects of non-speech, in the absence of the person even. Contentless, it is taken as a sign for something else. An ineffable something else, to be filled in like a post-modern fill-in-the-blanks orgy.

The silence of Akira means she has eaten something.

But this silence I leave with you is like a pus-filled boil on the verge of explosion. One false move and our noses and eyes and hair will be swimming through an unctuous trickle. Can you feel this dank coldness slowing down your face muscles? Are your eyelashes stuck? 

I could say honey if it made you feel better.